Marketing Beef Page 5

  “I was hoping that was you.”

  I smiled. “Your wish just came…” I looked down at my sheets. “Came true.” I put my face in my hand and shook my head.

  “You still going to Maine? Camping?” We had talked about my upcoming trip before he left.

  “Why? You wanna come?” I asked. I put my hand down on the mattress, accidentally sliding it into my mess. “Oh, God.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pinched the phone between my cheek and shoulder, picked up my gym shorts—the ones I had desperately shucked when I had entered my bedroom—and wiped my hands. “Oh, nothing. I just…never mind.”

  “Well, I’d love to come.”

  I threw the shorts onto the floor and stood up. “You would? Really?”

  “You can teach me how to kayak.”

  “I could.” I looked at myself naked in the mirror.

  “Cool.”

  I brushed at the birth mark. “A buddy of mine is going to meet me there.”

  “Oh.”

  I suddenly got the impression that maybe Dillon wanted it to be just him and me. “He was going to leave work early but now that we don’t have to work, I could get there before him.” And get him a separate lot. I didn’t want to be rude and blow off Ron, but I really wanted time alone with Dillon.

  “That’s cool. I’d like to meet your friends.”

  I smiled. That’s sweet. He doesn’t need to know Ron and I fooled around once…well twice. “I don’t have a ton of friends,” I said and turned away from the mirror.

  “Neither do I. Me; I’d rather have one or two deep, meaningful relationships than three-hundred fifty-six Facebook connections.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Three-hundred fifty-six?” I put my T-shirt back on, being careful not to take the phone away from my ear too long to miss a word of his.

  He laughed. “Actually that is about how many connections I have on Facebook—at least, last time I looked.”

  “Wow.” I put my feet on the bed rails. “I’m certainly not that popular.”

  “You sure you still want me to go to Maine with you? My entourage of Facebook friends might follow us,” he joked.

  I lay down on the bed and put my hands up inside my T-shirt. There was a gob of my goo glued to the hair on my stomach. I pulled at it. “I’d love it if you came.” The doorbell rang. I shot up.

  “Someone at your door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call me later.”

  We hung up. I grabbed my gym shorts and jumped into them.

  “Evan?” said a female voice.

  I went out into the living room, through to the foyer and opened the front door. Wearing a sun hat and a large grin on her face, Mrs. Johnson stood on my front porch with her black Lab, Detritus, by her side. “Oh, hi.”

  “Hello, Evan,” she said through the screen door. “Detritus and I were walking about, and I remembered I hadn’t yet invited you to my art show next weekend.”

  I opened the screen door. “Hey, buddy,” I said to Detritus as he plunged his way in. When Mrs. Johnson had had surgery I walked him for her.

  As per usual, Detritus immediately went for my crotch.

  I pushed him away. “Art show, huh?” Detritus was persistent and nudged me in the balls. I balked.

  “Detritus!” Mrs. Johnson furrowed her brow and looked down at him. “Yes, I’m having a little show…” she said without taking her eyes from her dog. “What in God’s name are you—”

  I suddenly felt the slobber of Detritus’ warm tongue wetting my shorts. “Oh, goodness.” I pushed him away.

  “Did you spill something on your shorts? He’s found something he likes.” She chuckled.

  My shorts! I looked down and wiped the dog spit and other fluids from my thigh. “Oh, Jesus. I…I…I spilled some milk when I was eating cereal.” My face must have been fifty shades of red.

  “That explains it. Detritus loves dairy.” She handed me a colorful postcard-invitation with a photograph of one of her paintings. “It’ll be not this Saturday afternoon, but the next. I’ll have some wine and cheese, nothing fancy. Just a few friends in the backyard to check out some of my latest creations.” She pulled Detritus by the collar. He was still going for me. “I just put the finishing touches on a really beautiful one of our lake.” She clasped her hands together and smiled. “You’re going to like it.”

  All of Mrs. Johnson’s paintings were of the lake. “Oh, this will be great,” I said, reading the dates on back of the card.

  “It’s a week from Saturday.”

  I looked up. Detritus was by her side and away from my crotch. “I’ll be there. Can I bring a friend?”

  A smile pulled at her lips. “Evan,” she said with a rise in her voice. “I’d be honored to meet…him?”

  I could practically feel my eyes snap open. I had never told her I was gay. Why did she assume? “My friend, Dillon. He likes art.” He does? And how do you know he’ll even go?

  “Oh,” she put a hand to her chest. Her smile never left her face. Detritus started forward, but I held him back. “Splendid! I’d love to meet him.”

  She repeated the date and time, and left. I shut the door, locked it, and walked away shaking my head. I looked down at my pants. “Unbelievable.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Dillon asked me to dinner at a place called 62 of Salem. We still hadn’t discussed being gay. But it didn’t matter. Being asked out to dinner, I felt it was understood. Besides, not bringing our sexuality into play made it more about us and less about sex, though the bonobo in me was threatening to make an appearance.

  That afternoon, I splurged and went to an expensive men’s clothing store at the mall. I dropped a hundred bucks on an indigo Henley, twill pants—which, to me, looked like offspring from a pair of jeans and khakis—and canvas shoes. I told the clerk I needed something trendy and let him pick it out. He put the medium-sized shirt I went for back on the rack and took out a small. “You’re ripped. Show it off.” He told me bicep cleavage was the rage, squeezed my upper arm and nodded as if confirming his decision. “And the shoes…” he said, I should wear without socks.

  I did as I was told.

  “You look very handsome,” Dillon said. He took his napkin from the table. “Has anyone ever told you that you have great facial features? A nice, angled jawline.” He drew his finger alongside his chin.

  I think I blushed a shade darker than my wine stain. I, too, placed my napkin on my lap.

  We sat at a two-top by the window. There was a view of the brick sidewalk and an occult shop—common in the city, as it’s known for its acceptance of witches—across the way. The restaurant’s décor—contemporary with bold colors, bottles of wine displayed on the walls, and stark table settings—matched its choice in food.

  Dillon looked at the wine list. “I heard about this restaurant from a client. They supposedly have phenomenal food, a real eclectic mix.”

  I looked at the menu. “Great variety.”

  “I’m glad you wanted to have dinner with me.”

  I looked up. He was staring at me, and I smiled. “I’m glad you asked me.”

  We shared an appetizer of chickpea fritters, and he ordered us a bottle of pinot noir. We sipped, ate, and talked. After what was probably an hour or more, we finally ordered our entrees.

  The waitress refilled our water goblets, and Dillon drank his. “Oh, I meant to tell you. I saw another Yankee billboard today.”

  I put down my glass of water. “Oh?”

  He looked out the window. “The guy on it kind of reminded me of you.”

  I thrust my head back. “Me? Not the ‘Don’t let your meat loaf.’ one?”

  His eyes widened. “You’ve…no. That’s another one.”

  “God, how many are there?”

  He sat back, picked up the linen napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. “You should model. You got the looks.”

  I touched my che
st. “Ah, no.”

  The waitress dropped off our arugula salads, and we ate them while bandying about nothing specific. It didn’t matter so much what we were talking about. It was the feeling I had for him that seemed to grow. That warm sensation I had felt deep inside, when we were sitting on the dock, felt like it was beginning to boil over. As the night went on, the more it seemed to percolate.

  My scallops and his duck arrived as I sipped the last of my wine. Dillon asked if I wanted more. “Water’s fine,” I said.

  We topped off our meal by sharing a fresh berry Pavlova.

  “This was splendid, Dillon.” I put my napkin on the table. “Thank you.”

  Dillon signed the credit receipt. “You don’t have to thank me.” He put his gold card back in his wallet.

  I sat there with my chin resting on the top of my hands.

  He sat back and slowly rubbed his stomach. “I’m full.” He was wearing a slim-fitting, vibrantly blue dress shirt—one he told me earlier he had picked up at some French boutique in Boston. His hands made a slight rubbing noise against the material. “I don’t think I could eat for a week.” I tried not to look down further to the form-fitting, gray jeans he had on.

  We got up.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” the waitress said, as we walked toward the front door.

  “My pleasure,” Dillon replied, touching my back as he held the door open for me.

  ****

  We strolled about Salem’s Pickering Wharf for a while, watching the boats rise and fall in the wake of the harbor’s current. After that, we meandered over to the Common, where Dillon had parked his Passat and drove a few miles to route 128, listening to The Pretenders. He knew I liked them and played a shuffle for me on his iPod.

  “There,” he said, pointing out my window, toward the advertisement. “That one.”

  I looked at the billboard and read the slogan, “We’re bigger than you think.”

  “The one on the end. The good-looking one with the sandy brown hair.”

  I caught another glimpse as we passed it. “He’s practically naked, except for the gym shorts.” The photo had been of a diverse group of men standing beside one another, each scantily dressed and holding or eating Yankee beef products.

  “What’s particularly effective about these campaigns is that they take a humdrum product, sexualize it and strike a chord with the shopper in the household.” Dillon shifted the car into a lower gear. His silver and black bracelet slid down his wrist. “They speak to straight homes—with two point four children—as well as gay homes, or even people living alone. They’ve got everyone in the industry talking about them.”

  “Corridor still has the campaign?”

  He looked over his shoulder and got into the passing lane. “Does it matter?”

  I shrugged. “Madeline told me they’ve absorbed quite a few of Thoroughbred’s accounts with the fallout.”

  He passed a BMW and cut in front of it. He put on his directional to get off at my exit.

  We pulled off the highway and started onto the back-roads into Conant. It suddenly got dark and quiet. There were not a lot of streetlamps in Conant.

  “So what makes a Detroit city boy pick the sleepy little town of Conant, Massachusetts to settle down in?” He shifted into third.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I like the country feel. After living in the inner city as a kid, I sort of wanted the opposite of it all.”Back on the Chain Gang came on the radio. “Conant has that rural feel, yet isn’t too far from civilization.”

  Dillon turned up the radio. “I like this one. It’s an oldie.”

  “It came out the year I was born.”

  He looked at me. “Eighty…?”

  “Eighty-three.”

  “That’s right. I was eighty-four.”

  We continued onward. The houses got bigger and more expensive looking. Conant had seen a lot of development in the early 2000’s and, despite the recession, had weathered it okay.

  I rolled down my window as he turned onto my street. Mrs. Johnson’s lights were out. We drove a little farther, and he pulled into my lot. His tires popped along the gravel as he parked behind my car. My kayak was upturned in front of it.

  Dillon shut off his engine, and his emergency brake made a clicking noise as he pulled it up.

  We sat in the dark for a moment.

  He turned toward me. His knee pressed up against the stick shift. “I had…I had a good time tonight.”

  I had my hand on the door latch. “You’re not coming in?”

  He grinned. “I didn’t want to be—”

  “Presumptuous?” I answered.

  He nodded and slowly leaned forward. I felt drawn and met him somewhere above the emergency brake. He licked his lips. “I probably smell like Moroccan-spice and—”

  I kissed him. I couldn’t hold back anymore.

  “Wow,” he said. Then he kissed me.

  “It’s not Bolognese,” I said, without taking my mouth off his.

  He slowly pulled back. “Fresh berry Pavlova?”

  I shook my head. “Heaven.” I kissed him again.

  His hand went around my waist, as he continued to kiss me, and through it said, “And you…” He tenderly bit my lower lip and went back to kissing me. “You taste just like…” He pulled back just enough to utter it softly. I could feel his breath against my mouth. “Like magnificence.” The tip of his tongue touched mine. He moved away, and I looked into his eyes. “And a hint of wonder.”

  I put my hand on his back and pulled him closer, kissing him deeply. My hand went up to the nape of his neck and caressed the soft buzz of his hairline. “Wonder, huh?”

  He shivered, closed his eyes and his head fell back a bit. “I wonder what I’m getting into.”

  I kissed his Adam’s apple and worked my way back up to his mouth, taking his upper lip gently between my teeth.

  He moaned, and our tongues met. He nearly climbed over the center console to get to me.

  I clawed at his shirt and reached up the back of it. It had pulled loose from his jeans. “Maybe we should head inside,” I said.

  He leaned back, exhaled, and nodded. The crotch of his jeans was bulging.

  ****

  When we got inside, we had calmed down enough to have an after-dinner drink. But our passion soon returned, and I brought him into my bed, where we made love.

  Foreplay, sex, afterglow. I like them all, but to me—if the bookends aren’t strong, the sex doesn’t hold up.

  We lay in bed. My head was propped against his upper arm, and he was tracing random patterns along my jawline. I shivered and arched my neck.

  “You know, it’s been a while for me,” he said and started to rub my chest.

  “Same for me.” I took his hand, and he clutched my thumb.

  He leaned over and kissed the tip of my nose. “You’re so friggin’ adorable.”

  “Because I haven’t had sex in four-hundred years?” I leaned back so I could see him better.

  He chuckled and a dimple appeared. “No, not because you’ve been so hard up.”

  I elbowed him jokingly. “I didn’t say I was hard up.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “There I go again, not saying the right things.” He pulled the sheet up from my waist and covered our still clutched hands. “What I meant was, you’re cute because…I don’t know.” He let his head drop back down onto the pillow and threw up his free hand. “You just are. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  I leaned over and onto his chest, curling the sheets up over me, leaving his lean stomach exposed. I started tracing lines up and down his abs.

  He ran his hands through my hair.

  I got up and kissed my way down to his navel. “You know, there really haven’t been a lot of men for me.” I looked back at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the most outgoing of sorts.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.” He gave a tender tug at my bangs. “You don’t even know how fucking hot
you are. Quietly strong and…in bed, holy shit.”

  I rested my head on his stomach. The sheets below his waistline began to stir. “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “At this point you could ask me anything.”

  I brushed my hand along his growing erection under the sheets. “You never said anything about my birthmark.”

  He got up on his elbows, and I kneeled on my haunches covering my own erection with the sheets.

  He looked down at my chest, then to my eyes. “What’s there to say?”

  I smiled and gazed out the window. “You’re just…” I turned to him, pointing at my chest. “You don’t find this a turnoff?”

  He came closer and grabbed my hand. “Are you high?” He shook his head. “Of course not. In fact…” He raised his eyebrows and with a much lower voice said, “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

  I guffawed and looked away. “C’mon.”

  He yanked at the sheets, and my penis flopped out from the confines. “No, really. It makes you…” He sighed. “I’m gonna screw this up again.” Then he said much faster, “It makes you real. It makes you…flawed, but in a good way.” He put his head down. “That didn’t sound right.”

  I got up on my knees, went over to him, pushed him onto his back and straddled him. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” And I bent down and kissed him.

  He opened his eyes. “Oh, one more thing.”

  I sat up and grimaced. “Yeah?”

  “Are you gay?” he asked with a smile.

  I laughed.

  “I’m just asking.” He put his arms out. “We never really got that out in the open. You just attacked me in the car and then fucked me so hard I went cross-eyed.”

  I laughed even louder. “They did cross a little, you know.”

  He sat up and pushed me gently on the shoulder. “They did not.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Did they?”

  I crossed my eyes and started a fake moan.

  He pushed me down onto the bed and hovered over me. “Evan Capri McCormick. I’m going to give you an orgasm that’ll make you scream.” He looked over his left shoulder. “Oh, wait a minute. I already did that, didn’t I?” He started these high-pitched screams, as if imitating me. He looked back at me, and we both burst into laughter.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  “The wonder of it all,” I sang. I was zipping about the house with my vacuum. I like to clean prior to going away, so that when I come back I don’t walk into a mess. “Love and Dillon…me and Dillon, yeah,” I continued singing, off key, making up lyrics to the hum of my Dyson. “Isn’t love grand, yeah.”